


Business Dealings of an Unorthodox Kind

by raphae11e



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: (It's Fine), (but like. lowkey two-way blackmail), Blackmail, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Enemy Lovers, Hate Sex, Identity Reveal, Light Sadism, M/M, Masochism, Painplay, Political Alliances, Power Dynamics, Repaying Debt, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 09:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18466471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raphae11e/pseuds/raphae11e
Summary: Sinclair is used to playing both sides of any conflict, and forming an alliance with Atlas is no exception. Atlas is used to getting his way, and putting Sinclair in his place only sweetens the deal.Needless to say, things get... messy.





	Business Dealings of an Unorthodox Kind

**Author's Note:**

> It's strange to me that 1) there isn't more Bioshock fic involving Sinclair; and that 2) there isn't more Bioshock fic about him and Fontaine or Atlas. No way the two of them gained fame in Rapture and then survived the civil war (mostly lol) without ever interacting. 
> 
> Obviously I also demand that these interactions be horny. That's how it works around here, folks! Enjoy!

“Why, look at this. Common folk like me gettin’ to stand in the presence the great big hero himself. _Atlas.”_ There’s a smile wrapped around the name, lazy like a snake in the sun. “To what do I owe this pleasure, chief?”

Atlas only scowls. “You tell me, Mr. Sinclair. You’re the one my men found skulkin’ about at the edges of Pauper’s Drop. Turf _we’ve_ claimed.”

“Hm.” Sinclair glances sidelong at the revolutionaries caging him on either side, as if only now noticing their presence. “I think you’re forgettin’ that turf used to be mine, son. The Sinclair Deluxe has got that lovely name for a reason. Besides--” He smiles, cool as could be, and Atlas has to fight not to ball his hands into fists. “I don’t make a habit of takin’ walks in this neighborhood unless I’m wantin’ to be found.”

So that’s how things are going to be. Atlas takes a slow, calming breath and forces himself to relax. Head held high, he gives a signal to his people and watches them leave his office on silent feet, door closing behind them.

Still looking infinitely pleased with himself, Sinclair moves to lean against one of the room’s several desks. It’s littered with posters depicting Atlas, surrounded by campaign slogans, staring up at them both from dark eyes; the man lifts one and holds it up to the light, eyebrows raised. “I’ll say, it’s quite the operation you’ve got goin’ here.” He gives a nod to Atlas’s likeness. “Even got yourself a bona fide portrait artist to paint that handsome face.”

Judging by the way it’s started, this is going to be a long, _long_ conversation. Atlas fishes a cigarette and matchbook from his back pocket and sighs. “What are you after, Sinclair?”

Sinclair hums, thoughtful, eyes still roving over the poster. “Nothin’ much, I promise you.” When he finally sets the flyer aside, his gaze snaps to Atlas with all the acuity of a coonhound scenting game. “I just figured you an’ I could hash out a deal. Somethin’ mutually beneficial, of course.”

And there it is. Deep down, Atlas had known that negotiating with Augustus Sinclair would probably, eventually, become a necessity. As a revolutionary, it had been easy to gain clout, to gain followers, to gain weapons and ammunition via smuggling and raids. Even before his appearance as the so-called voice of the people, Rapture had been fueled by incendiary speeches and propaganda. Adding his own to the mix had gotten him noticed quickly and efficiently.

But the one sphere of Rapture society that he simply cannot penetrate is the realm of the rich. Ironic, really, considering his background. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little miffed by this turning of the tables, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. After all, the rich aren’t exactly supportive of societal upheaval, so it’s unlikely they’d listen to a word of what he has to say.

That is, if those words are seen and heard coming from this face-- his _new_ face. The face of Atlas. But…

“Y’see, Rapture’s elite aren’t so _keen_ on all this revolution business,” Sinclair is saying, “but I pride myself in havin’ a nose for profit. And I’d sure like to help you out with your little endeavor here by spreadin’ that knowledge to the higher-ups. Andy Ryan excluded, naturally.”

Atlas snorts. “Well leavin’ out Ryan already sweetens the deal,” he replies. He fixes Sinclair with a smile of his own, tries to soften the edges, make it seem more genuine and open and willing to listen. _Man of the people,_ he reminds himself.

“That’s what I thought. Now, if I promise to do this for you, I’m gonna be needin’ somethin’ in return. Protection-- from your lackeys, from your enemies, and from any other unpleasantness your revolution might stir up.” For a moment, Sinclair’s smile drops, and the grimace that appears in its place almost seems genuine. “Those splicers are gettin’ awfully tired of goin’ after just the sickest and weakest of us.”

“Aye. It’s become a right mess out there.” He looks over Sinclair’s shoulder and out the window, as if dredging up memories of the more recent-- and bloodier-- altercations between his people and Ryan’s. “Is that all you want out of this deal a’ yours?”

“Mostly. Just one more thing: considerin’ just how much of a benefit my _gracious_ offer will be to you,” Sinclair says, “I was thinkin’ that, when all this is over, I could get a cut of the spoils. There’s plenty of Rapture to go ‘round.”  There’s that smile again, smug enough to set Atlas’s teeth on edge. “I’ll take half.”

Luckily, this is one area on which both Fontaine and Atlas ought to agree. “Absolutely not,” he growls. “You think, after all of us are finally liberated from that bastard, that I’m gonna see half the city handed over to another slimy businessman?”

Sinclair _tsks_ at him, unfazed. “I’m wounded,” he says, sounding anything but. “I don’t pretend to set my sights as lofty as our dear founder. I just want some assurance that I’ll get out a’ this place better off than how I came in. You understand.”

“No,” Atlas replies stiffly. “Can’t say that I do.”

“Ahhh, of course. The humble working class.” Sinclair’s smile widens into a smirk. Vaguely, Atlas imagines slugging the look right off the man’s face, perfect teeth and all. “Well it might surprise you to hear this, chief, but I wasn’t born with all this money, and I’m sure not made of it either. So I’m gonna ask that you give me your word on this deal before I go shellin’ out.”

Part of Atlas is almost frustrated to have to let this opportunity pass. The support of the upper class, plus all the weaponry and plasmids they could provide, for only the protection of one simpering salesman? It would’ve been _ideal,_ nearly the most perfect compromise he’d have achieved in all his years of business. But he should’ve known that a man like Sinclair would be greedier than that-- and, unfortunately, his status and image have become far too important to risk over one scummy business deal.

“As much as I’d like the extra assistance, I’ll have to decline. I won’t gamble with Rapture’s future.”

Sinclair looks mildly put out-- an expression that Atlas relishes for the briefest of moments-- before his smile slides easily back into place. “Fair enough,” he admits. “Shoulda known it would be tough to argue with you, Atlas.” He pushes himself off from the desk, hands in his pockets. “Watch yourself, though,” he says as he heads towards the door, “it’s easy to bite off more than you can chew down here. After all-- look what happened to Fontaine.”

It takes far more effort than it should to stop himself from reacting. Atlas swallows, hiding the motion with another drag from his cigarette. With righteous indignation-- the kind that only the leader of a revolution could muster-- hidden underneath a veneer of calm, he asks, “And what d’you mean by that?”

Sinclair pauses with his hand closed around the doorknob. “Well,” he starts, his drawl lengthening the word several syllables too many, “I figured you’d catch my meaning. After all, you’ve been in Rapture since…” As he turns back around, his eyes seem suddenly drawn to Atlas’s face. They dart from side to side, taking all of him in, until their gazes meet. “Actually, how long _has_ it been?”

Atlas returns the stare evenly. “Five years.”

“That so. Well you’ve seen it all then, haven’t you? Surely you didn’t miss out on the news of Fontaine’s untimely demise.”

“I don’t think anyone in this city did.” Another pull of smoke into his lungs. The tips of his fingers suddenly smart, and he winces, realizing he’s already burned the cigarette down to its very ashes. “Fontaine was sloppy,” he says, “and a crook. Serves ‘im right for takin’ advantage of us while Ryan had all of Rapture hogtied.”

“Amen to that.” Sinclair huffs out a laugh. “If you’re gonna play dirty, you’ve got to do it right.”

Moving to light another cigarette, Atlas examines the flame as it’s cradled between his palms. His skin prickles in a way that lets him know he’s being watched, and closely.

“The best sort of con is a long one. Don’t you think?”

This time, it’s impossible to stop himself from reacting. His head jerks upwards until he’s looking Sinclair in the eyes once more, breath caught deep in his chest. He very nearly crushes the cigarette still held between his thumb and forefinger. Lucky it hadn’t been between his teeth; he doesn’t relish the thought of swallowing the thing.

“Explain yourself,” he snaps. He’s done playing the fool.

“Easy. No offense meant, son.” Teeth flashing in the guttering lowlight, Sinclair looks at him with glittering eyes. “You, of all people, can forgive a man for a simple slip of the tongue. Can’t you, now?”

Atlas goes rigid. For one of the few times in his life, he feels his blood run cold, eyes widening and locked on Sinclair’s face: still smiling, still smug, still so fucking _pleased_ with himself for stumbling upon the _one_ thing he’d tried the hardest to hide.

“You fuckin’ bastard,” he seethes. He keeps his brogue intact, just in case--

Sinclair is quick to dash his hopes to pieces. “ _Frank,_ ” he says-- or _scolds,_ more like _._ He reaches forward to pluck the cigarette from limp fingers and takes a slow drag. “No need to be so uncouth.”

For once, Fontaine allows himself to indulge in his impulses. He punches Sinclair square in the jaw.

There’s the _snap_ of teeth clacking shut as the other man stumbles backwards before catching himself against the wall. Atlas’s knuckles smart from where they’d connected with bone; within the next hour or so, they’ll be bruised.

“How did you find out?” he asks. He steps forward, watching closely as Sinclair steadies himself. Blood is already rising beneath his skin and tracing the line of his cheekbone. His nose, Atlas notes with some sadness, is still intact.

Sinclair looks up at him. Breathing through an open mouth, he tips his head back and presses careful fingers against his jaw, assessing the damage. “I didn’t,” he replies eventually. “You just seemed awfully convenient, is all. Showin’ up when and how you did. Luckily, you were kind enough to confirm it for me, yourself.” His smile returns-- and with it, the simmering anger in Atlas’s gut. “Like the accent, by the way,” he adds. “Very _honest.”_

It only takes him two strides to bridge the gap between them. He fists his hands in the front of the man’s shirt, close to his collar, and hopes his grip makes it just that much harder to breathe. “So,” Atlas begins, “now that you’ve got an _in,_ you think you’re on safe ground?”

“I wouldn’t call it _safe,_ no. But advantageous, just maybe.”

“And how’s that?”

“Because you got an image to keep up, son. Tell me, how would your followers feel about you killin’ someone with your bare hands, all because he offered you a bad business deal?”

Atlas grits his teeth. “Circumstances can be arranged.”

“Is that so?” Sinclair’s gaze flicks down to the grip still tight at his neck. “For bein’ such a good liar, Frank, sometimes you really are a wide open book.”

Much to Atlas’s chagrin, he does have a point. The civil war has only just begun; he can’t drag them all into the deep end quite yet.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t strike the fear of God into people every once in awhile.

Slowly but surely, he wraps his fingers around Sinclair’s throat. He can feel a pulse beneath his palm, and the way hands are suddenly scrabbling at his forearms, then slipping down to shove against his chest. Sinclair’s eyes are near golden in this light, he notes. That pulse picks up, quick as a trapped fledgling, and Atlas bares his teeth in a grin.

The hands at his chest move again. One presses against his cheek, thumbnail digging into his cheekbone; the other snakes around to the opposite side of his head, grabs a fistful of hair, and _yanks._

Pain erupts across Atlas’s scalp and he hisses, recoiling at the burn. Sinclair, despite his soft appearance, is quick to exploit that brief opening in order to pry Atlas’s fingers from around his throat.

Atlas can hear Sinclair’s coughing even past the blood pounding in his ears. Elbows locked straight, hands digging into the meat of Atlas’s shoulders, he’s trying to keep them an arm’s length apart, but it’s a futile attempt. With how dizzy Sinclair still is from lack of oxygen, it’s all too easy to push closer, closer, until they’re nearly chest to chest. Now it’s Atlas’s turn to fist his hand in that grey-streaked hair. He pins the smaller man against the wall, one leg slipping between Sinclair’s for extra leverage and--

Both of them stop in their tracks. Atlas is struck with an unexpected but not altogether unpleasant revelation. Breathing harshly through his mouth, he allows himself a wry smile. “Well,” he intones. “Isn’t that _interestin’.”_

Sinclair, for the first time since entering the room, actually has the decency to look embarrassed-- and to remain _quiet._ Atlas bears down and the heat of a slowly hardening cock throbs against his thigh. He feels more than hears the responding sharp inhale. To Atlas’s satisfaction, a blush begins to creep up from under that starched collar, turning neck and cheeks and ears the perfect shade of pink.

“Augustus Sinclair,” he murmurs, voice rough in the tight space between them, “I never would’ve pegged you for a _degenerate.”_

Unfortunately, the other man’s silence doesn’t last long, nor does his surprise. A lopsided grin grows on his flushed face as he responds, “Rapture makes degenerates of us all.”

Atlas tightens his grip and Sinclair winces, shifting against him. Sure enough, there’s a twitch against his thigh as well. “I won’t argue with that,” he says.

He pauses for only an instant to second guess himself. Then he surges forward to press his mouth against Sinclair’s.

Their teeth come together awkwardly, cigarette smoke lingering on their lips. When he licks into Sinclair’s mouth, he tastes the familiar tang of blood; he must’ve bitten his tongue when he’d been struck, Atlas realizes. The thought makes a growl claw its way from his throat, and he smirks into the kiss when Sinclair responds by drawing a shaky breath.

It takes mere moments for them to turn violent again. Atlas uses his free hand to pin one wrist against the wall, bones creaking in his grip; in response, Sinclair buries his fingers in Atlas’s hair and tugs at it by the roots. Pained sounds leak into the air, two-timbred and rough.

Atlas catches Sinclair’s bottom lip between his teeth and bites down. He hears a sharp gasp, followed by a noisy swallow, followed by hips grinding down against his thigh. Blood wells on his tongue, but he doesn’t let go. He tips his head back just enough to pull the other man along with him.

When they finally separate, the full lips just inches from Atlas’s own are swollen and almost purpling with a deep bruise, and the eyes locked with his are dark with lust.

“Lord,” Sinclair breathes, “if you aren’t a piece of work.”

Atlas smiles. It feels sharp, a perfect match to the thorny want curling through his innards, and he pulls Sinclair’s head back to expose his neck. “You’re one to talk,” he replies. The lilt is wavering now, but he can’t bring himself to care. Instead, he slides his palm between their warming bodies, cups Sinclair through his stupid, _fancy_ slacks, and squeezes.

Hips buck into his grip immediately, insistently, and hands claw at his shoulder blades. As close together as they are, it’s easy to see the sweat beading on Sinclair’s forehead, gathering at the collar of his shirt. Beneath his clothes, his chest rises and falls in deep breaths and hitches whenever he rubs himself harder against Atlas’s thigh. Artless as a cheap whore.

“Pathetic,” he sneers.

Sinclair’s blush deepens to near crimson. With what looks like a great deal of effort, he replies, “Business is business.” And then: “Hands off for a moment, now.”

Atlas, surprised by the request more than anything, actually does relax his grip, providing enough give that Sinclair is able to shake him off. His hands jump to unbutton his shirt, then move to his slacks.

Here he pauses. Eyes half-lidded, he asks, “Do we have a deal, chief?”

Atlas raises an eyebrow and stares him down, dead silent. The older man, however, is totally unfazed. Despite the flush in his cheeks, the clutch of his fingers, the unsteady stance of his legs, Sinclair’s expression is suddenly more serious than it has any right to be.

Making demands while half-senseless and painfully hard is, Atlas admits, a _daring_ negotiation tactic. That, and the reality of his situation still lingers persistently in his fogged mind: Sinclair has the ace in the hole necessary to bring this whole great con crumbling down before their very eyes.

So, as much as he hates to do so, he pinches the bridge of his nose and gives a single, resolute nod.

_“Perfect.”_

Atlas chooses very pointedly _not_ to focus on the smile he knows has now reappeared on that face. “Shut up,” he growls instead, and closes the gap between them once more.

With the decision made, the harsh yet hesitant rhythm of the situation all but disappears. It is absolutely, most definitely not because of a need to nurse his bruised pride. Between teeth and nails and the chafe of fabric against skin, Atlas focuses all his attention on bruising and bloodying whatever flesh he can reach.

He presses two fingers, slicked meagerly with spit, into Sinclair’s hole and watches the man writhe.

“You’re lucky this persona of mine is the _givin’_ type,” he says. He’s brought his accent back in full force now, if only for the way it makes the vice grip around his fingers tighten. “Otherwise I’d be sendin’ you on your way with nothin’ more than a fat lip.”

Sinclair only laughs. “An’ you’re lucky I take so kindly to rough treatment,” he replies, “otherwise I’d have traipsed right on out after we sealed our little deal.”

Scowling, Atlas crooks his fingers until they catch on something. He presses down, all too eager to be cruel, and watches the naked back in front of him arch, head bowed and thighs trembling. Sinclair makes a sound as though his lungs are being squeezed and drags his clenched fists down the wall. Blood quickly beads in the grooves of his knuckles.

“I’d say it’s more than just _takin’ kindly_ to it.” His fingers curl further and there’s a reedy, half-stifled moan. “I’d say it’s you preferrin’ me to be less careful. It’s you preferrin’ me to take an’ take until you’re near gutted. To sink my teeth into you and fuck. You. Raw.”

At the last word, he pulls his fingers out. Sinclair nearly collapses without the contact, face now buried in the crook of his elbow, breathing coming hard and fast. Atlas’s grin only widens as he unbuckles his own belt and finally frees his cock. He allows himself the briefest moment for his eyes to flutter shut and his palm to press hot and throbbing between his legs.

“You ah, gonna make good on those promises, son?”

In lieu of responding, Atlas spreads him open and slides inside in one, fluid motion. The muttered string of curses is almost completely drowned out by the grit of his own teeth and a choked noise from Sinclair that has those velvet insides tensing even further, drawing Atlas in until he finally bottoms out.

Jesus, it’s been _so_ long since he’s had a good fuck. He hopes this stupid deal is worth it.

Atlas leans forward until they’re flush with one another, his grip on Sinclair’s waist tight enough to leave bruises. The grind of his hips feels _bone_ deep and makes light bloom on the backs of his eyelids. Their breathing seems to fill the whole room-- scraping against their ribs, spilling from parted lips, washing over sweat-damp skin.

He wonders if his people outside can hear them. He wonders if they’re listening with their hearts stuttering in their chests and their blood running hot.

Arousal travels through his body like lightning. “I hope you like walkin’ with a limp,” he snarls. In response, Sinclair just presses back into the cradle of his hips and sighs, slow and shuddering, until Atlas gives in.

Sinclair’s harsh gasps roll over him smooth as sandpaper, raising gooseflesh along his arms, prickling down his spine. The bites he leaves are mottled purple and blue and peppered with blood. Some of them will be visible above a shirt collar; he hopes it takes days for them to fade. Atlas gropes at the body against him, hips and waist and stomach and chest, and imagines his fingers biting crescents into tanned, flushed skin.

Imagines burying his teeth in Sinclair’s throat and _pulling._ Imagines that the man would thank him for it with that smug smile still in place, even as blood seeped out of him in great waves.

Though he’d hate to admit it, the pleasure coiling in his gut builds far too quickly. It’s the result of multiple factors, Atlas will reason with himself later-- the fact that it’s the first lay he’s had in months being chief among them. Certainly not because it's the best he's had in recent memory.

When he finishes, he rakes his nails from collarbone to sternum and knows he’s drawn blood. There’s a split second where Sinclair’s legs seem to finally buckle beneath him, but he locks his knees and-- judging by the sudden clench of muscles-- comes untouched.

Both of them breathe like racehorses as they try to calm their hammering hearts. It’s quiet outside; whether that’s a good or bad sign, Atlas isn’t exactly sure. In reality, it hardly matters either way. His name carries too much weight for anyone to question who he sleeps around with-- at least, not to his face.

After a moment, Atlas steps away. His sudden absence has come leaking out of Sinclair, traveling down trembling thighs in thin rivulets, and he whistles appreciatively. “Dunno why I didn’t think of this sooner,” he says. It takes a moment to get the words out, with how raw his throat feels.

Sinclair laughs, breathless, voice equally rough. “You’ve got an ego to rival Ryan’s, that’s why.”

It’s the kind of comment that, normally, would set Atlas’s blood boiling right away-- but cloaked as he is in the gauzy feeling of afterglow, he lets it slide. Except for a brief but harsh grab at still-exposed skin, his fingernails leaving marks on Sinclair’s ass. It earns him a sharp intake of breath that he counts as a small victory.

“I’ll say it again.” Buttoning his pants and smoothing over his shirt, Atlas reaches for another smoke from his pocket. “You’re lucky I’m the givin’ type.”

Sinclair flashes him a skeptical look over his shoulder before turning around. Glancing down, he prods at the angry red marks streaking down his chest and hisses at the pain of it, swollen lip caught between his teeth. Then he moves to right himself; he tugs his slacks up over his thighs, a brief grimace crossing his face at the tacky feeling of sweat and come against dry fabric. “If anyone could pull off a persona like that,” he says, “it’s you, Frank. Not a man in the whole goddamn world is that truly good.”

In spite of himself, Atlas smiles. “That’s one thing we can agree on.”

He doesn’t offer a smoke to the other man, instead preferring to stand at a distance, watching with casual interest as he redresses. Belt buckled, collar and suspenders tightened, tie straightened. There’s still an obvious flush to his skin, plus the marks on his neck that are already darkening and visible from several feet away. Atlas pictures him having to explain them to his associates-- to _Ryan--_ and narrows his eyes in pleasure at the thought.

With several passes of his hand through his hair, Sinclair finally looks… about as presentable as someone can after sex. He sighs, bruised mouth curling into a smirk. “Well, thank you kindly for the meeting, Mr. Atlas. And everything else besides.”

Atlas only nods. “I trust you can see yourself out.”

“Sure. Don’t worry that pretty head a’ yours.” Even with the slight limp coloring his stride, Sinclair passes him by without a second glance. His face is carefully neutral again, save for that ever-present smile that acts as his own sort of mask.

Briefly but violently, Atlas is struck by the frustration of knowing how greatly he’d underestimated Sinclair. He isn’t used to meeting others who hide like wolves in sheep’s clothing. It’s… eye-opening, certainly. Maybe even humbling. But that’s not something he’d be willing to admit even at gunpoint.

“Sinclair,” he says abruptly. The uneven footsteps stop, and he turns to see the man watching him, looking mildly surprised. Atlas sets his jaw and hopes he appears ambivalent. “We’ll do business again soon.”

And Sinclair-- predictably, irritatingly-- only smiles wider. “Oh, I’m sure that we will, son.” Then he’s gone, leaving Atlas with a pleasant ache in his bones and a bitter taste in his mouth.


End file.
